


Bad Company

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Bank Robbery, Castiel falls in love with Dean and embraces a life of outlawry, Cowboy Dean, Cowboys, Dean Winchester makes a damn good outlaw, Hold-Ups, Jo Harvelle with a shotgun, M/M, M/M Sex, Minor Character Death, Murder, Outlaw Dean, Outlaws, Sam Winchester decides law is not for him, basically everyone is a badass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer Morningstar is the most powerful cattle baron in Kansas and lately his competition has been experiencing a streak of bad luck.  The Harvelles own a modest ranch and they believe in minding their own business, but when Bill Harvelle and his ranch hand John Winchester are murdered, Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle demand justice, despite Ellen’s orders to leave well enough alone.  When their case is dismissed by the local law officers, they decide to take matters into their own hands.  Along the way, they’re joined by law-school drop-out Sam Winchester and a mysterious man named Cas Novak, who dresses like a dandy and never did a bad thing in his whole life before the day he met Dean Winchester.</p>
<p>Now the notorious Winchester Gang is raising hell in Ford County and they’re the most wanted outlaws within a hundred miles of Dodge City.</p>
<p>This is a vengeance quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Always Begins with a Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> I am having a ton of fun writing this story, and I hope you enjoy it too! Also, here's the playlist for the story: http://8tracks.com/miss_grey/wanted

[ ](http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/muliasz/media/Wantedpanel_zps31c1320f.jpg.html)

 

 

_Gather up your loved ones, gather up your friends_

_‘Cause this is when the bad guy, the bad guy wins._

_-"Bad Guy," by 3OH!3_

 

 

**_Kansas, May 1883_ **

 

            There was nothing else in the world like a warm summer breeze in Kansas, heavy with the scents of prairie grass, wildflowers, and the oncoming storm.  The day was quickly darkening with the gray clouds rolling in from the west, promising rain and thunder and lightning.  The cattle were antsy—they could feel it coming.  Chevy shifted on her feet, dark sleek hair and muscles rippling under Dean’s weight.  She turned her head toward the sound of the other horses whinnying just over the hill.  Dean cast his eyes around at the huddled animals and urged Chevy to take him back to where his father, John Winchester, and Bill Harvelle were rounding up the rest.

            John and Bill were huddled close together when Dean approached, too immersed in their conversation to notice his arrival.  Over the sounds of the cattle’s nervous stomping and mooing, and the distant clap of thunder, Dean could make out the words the older men were exchanging.  It wasn’t the first time Dean had overheard this conversation.

            “What did he want?”  John asked, eyes narrowed and hat tipped down to shield his face from the wind.

            Bill shrugged.  “Same thing he’s always wanted.  I told him we’re not selling.”

            John sighed heavily.  “Didn’t think you would.”  He was silent for a moment, then added “He’s got it in for you, Bill, and he’s not gonna be happy with your answer.”

            Bill laughed, but the sound was ugly, hollow.  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he thinks.  This is my family’s ranch, our land.  And I sure as hell ain’t giving it up just because some son of a bitch from the East is afraid of a little healthy competition.” 

            “You know we’ll stand by you, me and Dean.”

            Bill shook his head.  “The both of you should leave while you’ve got the chance.  I wouldn’t ask you to stay—there’s gonna be trouble, John.  Sooner rather than later.”

            John scoffed.  “You took me and my boys in when Mary died, gave us honest work, and a home.  You think we’d abandon you when you need us most?  You and the girls?  We’re family Bill.  There ain’t no threats that could change that.”

            Dean averted his eyes and pretended he hadn’t seen the grateful smile on Bill’s face, and the warm embrace the two men shared from atop their horses.  Lucifer Morningstar had been trying to get Bill Harvelle to sell his family’s ranch for months now, but the man continued to refuse.  The whispered conversations Dean caught between his father, and Bill and Ellen, always made him feel sick to his stomach, but he listened anyhow, because Dean figured it was better to know what was coming at ya, good or bad. 

            Finally, the other two men noticed Dean, and John waved him over so he didn’t have to try to yell over the strengthening wind.  “You can head on home now, Dean.  Let Ellen and Jo know what we’ll be in shortly.”

            Dean glanced around at the livestock milling on the prairie.  “What about the cattle?”

            Bill waved away Dean’s concern.  “Your daddy and me can handle it.  You done good today, Dean.  Head on home now.”

            Dean felt strange leaving his father and Bill to bring in the cows on their own, but he knew better than to backtalk them, so he did as they asked and turned Chevy back toward the house.

 

 

 

 

            Ellen and Jo were waiting for him when he blew into the house after caring for and stabling Chevy.  The house wasn’t overly big, but it was large enough that it had once housed three adults and three children with enough space to spare for more if it was needed.  Dean and Sam had shared a bed for their whole lives until Sam had left to go to college back East to become a lawyer.  Dean slept alone now, most nights, but sometimes Jo snuck into his room to sleep because she hated sleeping alone too.  She was like a little sister to Dean, and it made him feel a little bit better about Sammy being gone when she stuck close to him like that.

            Ellen met Dean at the door with a worried frown on her face and a wooden spoon in her hand.  “Where are the others?”  She asked, glancing around Dean.

            “They told me to go ahead and let you know they’d be in soon.  Is supper almost ready?”

            Ellen nodded.  “Jo’s just finishing up the biscuits now.  Stew’s been ready for a while.”  Ellen bit her lip and glanced up at Dean.  “That’s a hell of a storm coming, isn’t it?”

            “Yeah, it’ll be a doozy.  We could smell it coming long before we saw it.”

            “Be a good boy and get the candles around, will you?  I have a feeling it’ll be dark by the time your daddy and Bill get in.”

            Dean gave a salute, murmuring “Yes, ma’am,” before he went about the business of rustling up some candle stubs.  They were almost out and they’d have to make a trip into town soon for some more.  Not that they could afford it, Dean thought, frowning.

 

 

 

 

            More than an hour had gone by since Dean relayed his father’s message, and still John and Bill weren’t home.  Jo and Dean stood on the front porch, watching for their fathers while Ellen tried to keep herself busy, but there was a heaviness to the waiting that Dean just couldn’t shake.  Beside him, Jo murmured “They should be back by now.”

            Dean folded his arms over his chest and strained his eyes to see into the darkness.  “Yeah, they should be.”

            Jo’s big brown eyes were filled with worry when she glanced at Dean.  “Were they having trouble with the cows?”

            “Nah.  They were already rounded up.  Shoulda been easy.  ‘S why they sent me on ahead.”

            “I got a bad feeling, Dean.”

            “Me too.”  Dean squared his shoulders.  “I’m gonna go see what’s taking ‘em so long.”

            Jo reached out and grabbed his sleeve.  “Don’t.  Don’t go alone.”

            Dean flashed Jo a grin and tousled her blonde curls.  “I’ll be fine.  Go tell your mama I’m heading out to see if the others need help.”  Before Jo could protest, or Ellen could call him back, Dean took off for the stables.  Chevy was awake and alert, and she stomped in her stable when she saw Dean approach.  Dean saddled her quickly and levered himself onto her back, saying, “Come on, girl.  Let’s go see what’s the matter.”

 

 

 

 

            It didn’t take Dean long to get to the place where he’d left John and Bill, but it was deserted now.  All of the cattle were gone, but their hoof prints were still fresh, squished into the mud from the last rain, grass trampled under their heavy steps.  “Where the hell did they go?”  Dean wondered, looking around.  They didn’t have the biggest herd of cattle, but it was big enough that it shouldn’t be able to just disappear like that.

            Dean nudged Chevy with his boots and she took off at a gallop.  Dean should have been watching more closely where they were going, but he was too worried to be cautious and slow down.  The sun had set, the storm was whipping a fierce gale across the plains, and thunder was cracking deafeningly overhead.  He would have to get back home soon. 

            Dean scanned the land for twenty minutes before he saw the dark shapes lying in the grass, and the black stain spreading out from them.  Dean felt like he’d swallowed ice when he noticed the shapes and he urged Chevy closer.  He leapt from her back and took off at a run when she shied and refused to get any closer.  Dean fell to his knees when he reached them, but he couldn’t accept what he saw.

            John and Bill, both dead—shot.  Their bodies pierced with multiple bullets, blood pooling around them, soaking into the thirsty earth.  The scream of pain and rage and denial ripped from Dean’s lungs, a ragged “Noooo!!!!” as he reached for his father and found him already growing cold.  “Dad!  Bill!”  Dean shook them, but it was no use.  Their eyes were open, staring up at the sky, unseeing. 

            Dean wasn’t sure how long he knelt next to the bodies of his father and Bill, but it was long enough that the tears streaming from his eyes had dried on his cheeks and the night had truly fallen—the only source of light now was from the jagged flashes of lightning.

            Dean was frozen in fear, and indecision—he didn’t know what he was supposed to do now.  The thought of leaving John and Bill lying dead on the prairie tore at his heart, but he couldn’t take care of this himself.  He had to tell someone, but the thought of telling Ellen and Jo made Dean feel like he might die.  Nothing would make this better.  Nothing was right.

            Dean brushed his hand over John’s face one last time before he leapt onto Chevy’s back and spurred her toward town.  The Harvelle ranch was miles from Ashwood Township, but Dean knew he had to make it there before the storm hit, so he could rouse the deputy and bring help.

            Dean pushed Chevy harder than he should have, and later, he would marvel at the fact that she hadn’t broken a leg on that ride, but they made it to Ashwood in one piece.  Dean leapt from Chevy’s back and left her standing on the road while he darted frantically into the jail, where a candle was still burning in the window.

            The man on duty wore a deputy’s badge and he raised his eyes lazily as Dean slammed through the door.  Dean stood in front of him, panting, frantically trying to catch his breath, while the man quirked a brow and said “Hold on there, boy, what’s the problem?”

            After a moment, Dean gasped, “Come quick!  Someone’s killed my father and Bill Harvelle!”

            The deputy’s eyes widened and he stood from his desk, grabbing a coat as he went.  “When did it happen?”

            “Not long ago.  I rode here as fast as I could when I found them.”

            “Let me rouse the coroner.  Do you know who did it?”

            Oh, Dean knew who did it, but he thought it best to bite his tongue for the moment, so he shook his head and said “No, sir.  There was no one else there.”

            It took longer than Dean would have liked to fetch the coroner, but soon the three of them were galloping back toward the ranch.  It started to rain before they got there.

           

 

 

 

            The bodies were where Dean had left them, and the cows were still missing, but not long after he’d returned with the deputy and coroner, Dean heard the sound of other horses approaching as well.  Not for the first time, Dean cursed the fact that he didn’t carry his own gun.  Still, he stood tall next to John’s body, and stared into the darkness, waiting for whoever it was to arrive.

            His heart wrenched when he realized it was Ellen, followed closely by Jo, and that their faces were bleached white by fear and the storm.  Ellen dismounted as soon as her horse drew to a stop and she threw herself at Dean, admonishing “Thank God you’re okay.  Boy, you terrified us!”  Dean squeezed her back and murmured, “Ellen…”  But before Dean could explain what was happening, Ellen seemed to finally realize that Dean wasn’t alone.  She jerked away from him and glanced around, and her eyes caught on the bodies of her husband and John.  “Oh God,”  She gasped, her hands covering her mouth.

            “Ellen, I’m sorry….”  Dean reached for her again, but she jerked away from him and strode over to the bodies.  She sank to her knees in the mud next to Bill and threw herself over his body, a sob tearing from her throat. 

            Jo arrived a moment later and she threw herself from the back of her horse before it had even come to a stop.  She landed nimbly and flung herself forward, but Dean caught her and held her back.  She struggled against him and screamed, fighting to get to her mother and father.  The deputy and coroner stood back and watched dispassionately as the Harvelle women lost their minds with grief.

            “Daddy!”  Jo screamed, “Daddy!  Who did this?!”  She tore at Dean’s arms with her nails, but he held her tight.  “Who did it?!  I’ll kill them!  I’ll kill those sons of bitches!”

            The deputy regarded Dean and Jo evenly and said “Hold her tight, boy.  We don’t need her hysterics getting her in trouble.”  Then he glanced down at the bodies and added “Looks like the work of rustlers.  I’ll let Sheriff Azazel know and we’ll do what we can to bring these criminals to justice.”

            Ellen seemed deaf to the goings on of the others, head bowed, hands gripped tightly in the cloth of Bill’s bloody shirt.  Eventually, Jo wore herself out with the screaming and the crying, and she sagged in Dean’s arms. 

            Dean felt numb: he was numb when they took John and Bill’s bodies for the mortician, he was numb when he held Ellen and Jo close to him, he was numb when he made his way back home with them, though he couldn’t remember the journey to get there.  The storm continued to rage outside, and only after Ellen prompted Dean to change out of his wet clothes did he realize they’d all been drenched. 

            They didn’t sleep that night.  They all sat huddled in front of the fire in the main room, clinging to each other and sobbing in the otherwise silence of the house.  Dean hugged Ellen and Jo close to his sides, petted his hand over Jo’s tangled golden locks, and promised, “We will have justice for this.  I swear it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            The law in Ashwood determined that the murders of John Winchester and Bill Harvelle were the fault of cattle rustlers, who had also succeeded in stealing a large portion of the Harvelle family herd.  The murders made the papers, but there were no wanted posters because there were no suspects.  There was no trial.  In short, there was nothing to be done.

            Dean wrote to Sammy in New York to tell him about the tragedy, but the mail was slow, and he knew that Sam wouldn’t be able to make it to the funeral.  Still, Sam had a right to know, and Dean told him that no matter what the Ashwood law officers said, they weren’t done pursuing justice.

            Ellen and Jo agreed to take the long stage coach ride with Dean into Dodge City to consult with a lawyer.  Ellen emptied her savings for the trip, and to hire the famed Mr. Metatron to investigate their case and represent them.  They’d consulted via wire before this meeting, so Dean thought they were on the same page when he, Ellen, and Jo strode into the lawyer’s office, however they were greeted with even more disappointment.

            Metatron folded his hands in front of him on his desk and said, “I’m sorry Mr. Winchester, but after reviewing your case, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is nothing to pursue.  I’ve consulted with the Ashwood law officers, and they’ve told me that the only suspects in this case are unknown cattle rustlers.  I cannot push for the prosecution of unknown criminals.”

            Dean gaped at the short, fat, curly-headed man and said “What about that other thing I mentioned?  Our families were being threatened by the Morningstar outfit, just days before my father and Bill Harvelle were murdered in cold blood on our ranch!”

            Metatron raised a brow, plainly unimpressed.  “That’s a dangerous accusation to make.  I hope you understand that Lucifer Morningstar owns the largest livestock outfit in all of Ford County, maybe even all of Kansas.  He’s well respected and he has a lot of friends.”

            Ellen leaned forward, then, her eyes troubled.  “Does that mean that he’s exempt from investigation, then?”

            Metatron shrugged.  “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to investigate.  You have no evidence to back the accusation of threats, and there were no witnesses to John Winchester and Bill Harvelle’s murders.  You have no proof to support your accusations.”

            Jo growled, “We know it was them!”

            Metatron ignored her completely and continued on in his patronizing voice. “I’m sorry for your loss, and for your financial hardships.  I think it’s best if you let the matter die and move on with your lives.”

            Dean balked.  “How are we supposed to do that?  Are we supposed to just pretend that the men who murdered our family aren’t running lose in Ford County?”

            “Do you want my honest advice?”  Metatron didn’t wait for the answer before he continued, “Sell the ranch, get out of Ford County.  If your suspicions are true, it’s no longer safe for you there.  One boy and two defenseless women alone on that ranch?  These are dangerous times.  Didn’t you say your brother is in New York?  Go to him.  Start over.”

            “You’re saying we should just give up?”

            “I’m saying there’s nothing else I, or any other lawyer, can do for you.  I’ll have my clerk total your bill.  Have a good day.”

 

 

 

 

 

            The sun outside the law offices was bright and hot, and Dean felt sweaty and itchy under the layers of clothes he’d worn for that failed meeting.  Even Jo and Ellen had dressed in their Sunday finest for the meeting, and it was strange to see them confined under layers of ruffled cloth.  It made them _seem_ helpless, like Metatron had said, even though Dean knew better.

            Well, there was nothing for them to do now but to make their way to the stage pick up and wait for the next ride headed toward Ashwood. 

            The bustle of Dodge City was foreign to them, and so were the wide, dusty streets.  Dean kicked up dust purposefully—there seemed to be no other outlet for his impotent rage. 

            They were the first ones to the stop—the stage wouldn’t be by for another couple hours.  Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and glared back toward the center of town.  Lucifer Morningstar had a home here, in Dodge City.  Metatron was right about one thing—he was well-respected, and he had a lot of friends.  Dean had no doubt that Metatron and Sheriff Azazel were among those friends.  Sons of bitches, every single one of them.

            Ellen had taken a seat on a bench to wait for the coach, her face showing the lines and weariness that were usually hidden by her smiles and vitality.  She looked old now, worn-down.  Hell, Dean figured they probably all looked that way.

            Jo sidled up next to Dean silently.  He turned his eyes toward her, unsure what to say—nothing could make this better.  A bead of sweat trailed from her forehead, where her hair was arranged in elegant curls, down her neck, into the finery of her Sunday dress.  “Dean,” she started, voice hard—a stark contrast to her appearance.  “I know that Lucifer Morningstar was responsible for John and daddy’s murders.”

            Dean ran a comforting hand down Jo’s back and pulled her closer.  “I know.”

            “That sorry excuse for a lawyer probably works for him, too.  No one is going to help us.  We’re just supposed to forget it happened.  Without the cattle, without daddy and John—Mama is gonna have to sell the ranch.”

            Dean clenched his jaw.  “No, Jo. You and me and your mama…we’ll do whatever we have to do to keep the ranch working.”

            “Whatever we have to?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Dean.  The law is gonna let Morningstar get away with murdering our family in cold blood.  All of ‘em.  They’re gonna get away with it.”

            They were silent for a long time, then.  On the bench, Ellen seemed to have drifted off, maybe finally giving in to the exhaustion of the last few days.  Jo gently laid her head on Dean’s shoulder and said “Dean, promise me something?”

            “Anything, sweetheart.”

            “You and me… we won’t let them get away with it.  One way or another, we’ll get justice for our family.”

            Dean gave a short nod.  “We’ll do whatever we have to.”

            “Good.”


	2. It's Why They Call Me Bad Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For coraregina--you know what I'm talking about ;)
> 
> Enjoy everyone!

 

 

_“Oh, I was born six-gun in my hand,”_

-“Bad Company,” by Bad Company

 

 

Three months later

 

 

            The sky was sunny and blue; the air close and hot enough to muffle the rhythmic clunk of his boots on the boardwalk.  Most folks were smart enough to stay inside the cool shade of their homes and businesses on days like today, but some of the good citizens of Ashwood still had business to attend to, apparently.  A couple men, decked in three-piece suits strode down the boardwalk on the other side of the road, not even glancing his way.  A lady in a high-necked dress passed him, glancing up through her lashes as he drew near.  Dean flashed her a flirtatious grin and she hurried along faster.  He smirked.

            It was hot enough today that Dean’s feet were sweating in his boots and his shirt was sticking to the trail of sweat down his back and under his arms.  Still, he pasted a charming smile on his face and whistled as he made his way up the boardwalk toward Morningstar Mercantile.

            Dean pushed through the door to the mercantile store and glanced around at the handful of patrons, and the clerk behind the counter.  Dean tipped his hat back with a flick of his finger and with the other hand, drew his father’s Colt from the holster at his side.  The clerk glanced up suddenly and Dean clicked the hammer back.  He flashed a smile at everyone gathered and, raising his voice loud enough to be sure he was heard, he greeted, “Mornin’ folks, this is a hold up.”

            The ladies in the corner inspecting cotton fabrics drew back and gasped, hands over their mouths.  The clerk behind the counter shifted slightly and Dean steadied his aim on the man, admonishing, “Don’t get any ideas there, friend.  I’m only here for your money, not your blood.”  Dean gave a sharp nod toward the heavy brass cash register.  “Empty the register into a bag, and make it quick.”  The man’s hands trembled as he moved to comply, nervous brown eyes darting back and forth between Dean and the register.

            The seconds ticked by like years—the women were shaking now, huddled close together, too afraid to move.  The clerk emptied the register quickly, but then Dean ordered “The safe too,” and he set to emptying that as well.  The air was smothering in the store, and Dean’s palm was sweaty around the warm metal of the gun.  Any moment, this whole thing could go straight to Hell.

            The clerk finished stuffing the cash into a burlap sack and he shoved it over to the edge of the counter.  “That’s it,” The man gasped.  “That’s everything.  Please, don’t shoot.”

            Dean strode forward and grabbed the bag.  “I ain’t gonna shoot you unless you make me, alright?  But I got a message for your boss, you ready?”

            The man nodded frantically. 

            “You tell that son of a bitch Lucifer Morningstar that Dean Winchester is looking for him.”  The man’s jaw dropped open and a tendril of satisfaction curled in Dean’s belly.  Good, this man had obviously heard of him.  “He knows how to find me.”

            Dean was backing toward the door, offering a parting tip of his hat to the terrified women in the corner, when the door burst open with a flurry and Jo strode in, shotgun perched on her shoulder.  “Trouble’s coming, Dean.  We gotta get the hell out of here.”

            Dean gave a sharp nod.  “Right.  You lead, I’ll cover you.  Let’s go.”

            The clerk reached for a weapon underneath the counter the moment Dean turned the Colt away from him, but by that point, Dean and Jo were making their way hurriedly down the boardwalk, slipping into the nearest alleyway where they’d stashed their horses.  A few seconds later, they heard the doors slam open again and the clerk shouted “Help me!  Someone!  Help!  We’ve been robbed!”  His cries were quickly followed by the hysterical wails of the women who had been held at gun point.

            By the time Dean had hoisted himself onto Chevy’s back, Jo was already charging out of the alleyway onto the main road.  Dean pressed his heels into Chevy’s sides and followed close behind her, but he had to swerve and dodge a spray of bullets as he came around the corner.  Chevy kicked up dust on their way out of town, and they were followed by shouts and gunfire, but they were faster than the law in Ashwood, and Dean knew that no one would catch them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

           

            They were camped out in an abandoned shack more than ten miles outside of town, among the ruins of a mining settlement gone bust.  By the time Dean had fed the horses and stashed them behind the shack, Jo had a fire going inside and was crouched next to it, poking at a pot of water and what looked like beans.  She glanced up at him as he came through the door and managed a half-hearted smile.  “How much did we get?”

            Dean shrugged.  “Haven’t counted yet.”  He sprawled on the dusty floor next to her and twisted the bag open.  Wads of cash and coins spilled out into the dirt and Dean chuckled.  “Hallelujah, take a look at this.”  Dean counted quickly, and when he’d gone over it twice, he grinned up at Jo.  “Looks like we got $600.  It’s not enough to break the bank, but it should be enough to annoy that son of a bitch.”

            Jo hummed.  “Anything to piss off Lucifer Morningstar.”

 

* * *

 

           

            This was not their first job, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be their last. 

            They’d tried to go back to their lives, had tried to settle things with the Morningstar Company through legal means, but all of their efforts had come to nothing.  Just a couple weeks after John and Bill’s funeral, one of Morningstar’s agents had come knocking at their door with an offer to buy the ranch from Ellen.  Ellen was tired, and heart-sore, and she’d considered the offer until Jo had slammed the door in the agent’s face with the parting words “We’re not selling, you son of a bitch.  Come back and I’ll kill ya.”

            Their trouble had worsened after that—the rest of the livestock went missing, and one night someone painted a death threat on their stable wall in what might have been blood.  Dean made reports of everything to Sheriff Azazel’s deputy in Ashwood, but they told him the same story every time: “Sounds like bandits to me—it’s not safe out here for good, honest folk anymore.  Y’all should consider selling.”

            The stress of trying to support themselves and keep their ever-encroaching enemies at bay was becoming too much, and finally Ellen’s grief broke her down.  Dean found her crying on the kitchen floor, her hands covered in flour.  “We ain’t got a choice,” she sobbed into Dean’s shoulder when he pulled her close.  “Either we gotta sell, or they’re gonna kill us all one by one just like they did your daddy and Bill, and then they’ll take what they want anyway.”

            Jo found them huddled like that on the kitchen floor.  She folded her arms and leaned against the door jamb, her face calm, but eyes cold as she promised, “Don’t worry mama.  Me and Dean will take care of it.”

 

 

 

            Dean wasn’t sure what went through her mind, but the next time the Morningstar agent came knocking on their door, Jo picked up Bill’s shotgun, opened the door, and pulled the trigger.  The man was standing close enough that when the buckshot ripped through his body, his blood splattered back onto Jo’s face and dress.  The recoil was enough to send her back a step, wide-eyed and slack jawed.  Behind her, Ellen started screaming.

            Dean was frozen for a moment—he’d never seen a man die before.  Jo slowly lowered the gun to her side and, voice cracking, whispered “Dean—Dean, I think I killed him.”

            Jo’s voice shook Dean from his stupor and gave him the strength to stride over to her and take the gun from her hands.  She let it go easily but it was harder to tear her eyes away from the dead man on their doorstep.  Dean had to shake Jo to get her to focus, but she finally met his eyes, though hers were clouded with shock.  “Did I kill him?”

            Dean swallowed and glanced back at the bloody mess that used to be Lucifer Morningstar’s agent.  “Yeah, sweetheart, you killed him.”

            Ellen stumbled over to them, gasping, and she clung to their arms.  Eyes wide with fear, she croaked “ _What did you do?!_   Jo, they’ll hang you for this!”

            It was difficult to get Ellen to sit down, but her knees eventually buckled underneath her and she took a seat at the table.  Dean licked his lips and, casting a quick glance back at Jo, who still had not moved, Dean promised, “I ain’t gonna let her hang, Ellen.  But we got no choice but to leave now.  And we gotta leave fast.  Ain’t no telling when someone is gonna come looking for this guy.”

            Ellen sprang to her feet and began throwing their meager belongings into satchels for them to carry, but Jo still stood rigid, staring in the doorway.  “Dean,” she croaked, eyes glazed, hands beginning to tremble.  “I—I can’t wear this.”  She glanced down numbly before meeting Dean’s eyes once more.  “I got blood on my dress.”

            Dean nodded and reached for her hand.  She felt cold to the touch.  “It’s alright, Jo.  We’ll take care of it.”

            Dean was able to scrounge up some of his old hand-me-downs that fit her well enough—the sleeves on the shirt were too long, so she had to roll them up, and the trousers were a little loose, but nothing a pair of suspenders couldn’t fix.  She snatched Bill’s old hat and plopped it on her head before she strode out the door, past the body of the man she’d killed.

            Dean didn’t own much, so he didn’t bother with grabbing more than a change of clothes, a couple trinkets, and his father’s Colt revolver.

            “We gotta get outta Ashwood as soon as we can.”  Dean said from Chevy’s back as they rode away from the ranch.  “They’ll be looking for us as soon as they find out what we’ve done.  With the law on Lucifer’s side, they’ll try to hang us for sure.”

            Jo was silent for the first twenty minutes of the ride, but then she finally seemed to come back to herself and, setting her jaw, she announced, “I’m not leaving.”

            Ellen blanched.  “Joanna Beth Harvelle, you sure as hell _are_ leaving.  We all are.”

            “No, mama.  Those men, they killed daddy.  And they killed John.  They stole our livelihood from us.  And they woulda killed us too.  I’m not gonna let ‘em get away with it.”

            Ellen gaped for a moment.  “I will carry you outta here if I have to.”  Jo frowned and tightened her hands on her horse’s reigns.  “Dean,” Ellen barked, “Talk some sense into my fool daughter.”

            Dean felt his throat constrict, fighting against the words that burned on their way up.  “Jo’s right.”  Dean glanced at the young woman who was as close to a sister as he’d ever had.  “And I made her a promise, Ellen.  We ain’t gonna let these sons of bitches get away with what they’ve done.”

            Tears stained Ellen’s cheeks again as she turned her gaze frantically from Jo to Dean and back again.  “They’ll hang you both!”  She cried.  “I can’t watch that happen!”

            Dean shook his head. “They can’t hang what they can’t catch, Ellen.  I’ll take care of Jo, I swear.”

 

 

 

 

            Dean still wasn’t sure how they’d ever managed to talk Ellen into getting on the train headed East.  He figured she must have still been in shock to agree to it, but after tearful hugs and a hundred different promises, Ellen climbed onto the train that would take her to Sam.  Ellen stared out the window as the train pulled away.  Dean watched the hulking steel machine chug away, spouting a plume of smoke in its wake, and he felt a surge of panic in his belly, along with the distinct feeling that he’d just watched his only way out disappear without him.

            Jo shivered next to him in the waning light of the evening, so Dean slung an arm around her and tugged her close.  They’d do whatever they had to, now.

 

 

 

 

            The agent’s death was in all the papers the next day, and within hours the first Wanted poster made its appearance.  It bore a crude sketch of Dean’s face, and underneath, read “ _Dean Winchester—Wanted for murder—Reward $500._ ”

 

 

 

            They’d been on the run ever since, but they weren’t gonna tuck their tails between their legs and hide, either.  They made it their mission to raise Hell in Ashwood, enough to gain the attention of Lucifer Morningstar and all of his cronies. 

            Dean Winchester was already a wanted man.  He and Jo figured they might as well make a name for themselves.


	3. I'm a Tornado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait everyone! However, as some of you already know, I'm on summer vacation now and have a whole lot of free time to work on my fics now! I hope you enjoy :)

 

 

_“Thought you'd change the weather_   
_Start a little storm_   
_Make a little rain_   
_But I'm gonna do one better hide the sun until you pray_   
_I'm a tornado looking for a soul to take”_

-“Tornado” by Little Big Town

 

 

            The stage driver pulled hard to the left, and the horses veered sharply, the stage whipping behind them.  Inside the coach, the security agent slammed against the wall, but then righted himself in time to pull a shotgun from the seat next to him and aim it out the window.  He pulled the trigger and Dean just managed to dodge a spray of hot lead, Chevy falling back and pulling close.  The stage horses heaved deep breaths and lunged forward over the rough prairie road, and the stage wheels clattered over terrain that they weren’t built for.  The driver cracked the reins and the coach jerked again, knocking the spare shells from the agent’s hand, but he quickly recovered and pumped the lever on his shotgun. 

            Dean was normally a quick draw, but he was still getting used to trying to shoot from horseback, and his grip fumbled on his Colt when he tried to pull it from the small of his back.  He saw it coming: the coach veered dangerously close and the Morningstar agent pumped the shotgun again, aiming right for Dean, and there wasn’t enough time to pull Chevy out of the way.  In the instant before Dean would surely have been blasted straight to Hell, the agent lurched forward, blood spattering the inside of the coach as another shot blew through the back of the man from the other direction, and he dropped his shotgun.  Dean shouted and pulled hard on Chevy’s reins, but he could still see through the blood-stained windows of the coach to the other side, where Jo rode close, shotgun perched easily against her shoulder, both hands balancing it.  Unlike Dean, Jo had taken quickly to shooting from atop her own horse, Daisy. 

            The stage driver screamed when he realized that his associate must have been shot, and he grappled for his own weapon while clutching tightly to the reins.  This was the opening they’d been waiting for, though, so Dean put his heels into Chevy’s side and urged her forward.  Chevy was fearless and she raced right up next to the coach and then pushed forward to match the other sweaty, heaving horses.  The coach veered again but this time Dean veered with it.  Dean whipped the Colt forward and pointed it at the pale, desperate face of the coach driver.  “Stop the coach!”  Dean demanded.

            The man drew his own gun and fired, but it was unsteady and the shot went wide.  “Son of a bitch!”  Dean growled, ducking.  “Stop now or I’ll put a fucking bullet in your skull!”  He shouted.  The man rolled his eyes to the side, desperate, but when he tried to shoot again, the coach hit a bump and the pistol slipped from his hand. 

            Dean could see Jo and Daisy put on a burst of speed on the other side of the coach and leap forward.  Dean thought she was gonna pull up next to the coach to mirror Dean, but Jo seemed intent on outrunning the damn thing.  The stage horses whinnied and stomped harder when Daisy drew near, but then Jo gave her a final push, and she leapt forward toward the front.  The driver jerked the reins sharply to the side and the movement was sudden enough that the front horse stumbled and almost went down.  Dean reached out and snagged the harness of one of the horses and pulled back, hard.  Jo whipped her shotgun around and leveled it at the driver.  Only then did he release the reins and raise his hands, shouting “Oh God, please don’t kill me!  Don’t shoot!”

            It was a bit of work, but finally Dean managed to get the other horses to slow and finally stop.  When they did, they’d already left the road and stood in the middle of the prairie, long grass rising to the horses’ knees.  “Get down!”  Dean growled.  The man leapt from his seat easily, hands still raised.

            “And don’t do anything stupid, or else we’ll shoot you anyway,” Jo added as she also slowed, and pulled Daisy over close to Chevy.  The stage horses rolled their eyes and stomped, still panicked from the daring race across the plain.

            “Take it!  Take everything!”  The driver cried.  He still held his hands aloft, but his whole body had begun to shake.  Dean’s own body was on the verge of the same, with the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

            “Oh, we’re going to.”  Jo said, as she circled him and pulled the stage door open.  The dead agent fell out and Jo gave the blood spatter a cursory glance and a curl of her lip before she pulled herself up into the coach and began rummaging through the packages.

            The driver’s gaze followed Jo, but then he glanced back at Dean, who held the Colt in the man’s face.  “Please, don’t kill me.  I swear I won’t tell a soul.”

            “It’s here, Dean!”  Jo called.  A moment later, she leapt from the coach with two large burlap sacks in her hands, obviously heavy enough to strain her muscles.

            Dean smirked and glanced back at the driver.  “Where was this coach headed?”

            “Trenton.”

            “Where?”  Jo demanded, dropping the bags and leveling her shotgun at the man’s head again. 

            “B-bank.”  The man gulped.  “Morningstar’s bank.”

            “Good man.”  Dean said.  “Jo, load those bags up, would ya?”  Jo nodded and heaved the bags up, securing one each to Chevy and Daisy.  “What’s your name?”  Dean asked the driver.

            The man swallowed visibly again.  “Sherman.”

            Dean quirked a brow.  “Well, Sherman, today is your lucky day.  We ain’t gonna kill you, so long as you agree to deliver a message for us.”

            “Yes, of course.  Anything.”

            Dean smirked.  “You tell Lucifer Morningstar that we’re still waitin’ on him.  That’s Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle, just in case you didn’t figure it out yet.  And we are not gonna stop until the son of a bitch comes to meet us himself.”

            “Yes, I’ll tell him!”  Sherman promised, still shaking.

            “Good.”  Dean never took his eyes off the quivering man in front of him, but he called “Jo, you wanna cut Sherman’s horses loose for him?”

            “But--!”  Sherman protested, but when Dean quirked an amused brow, the man clamped his mouth shut again.

            Jo pulled her trusty Bowie knife from her boot and cut the harnesses on all of the horses.  Most of them were frightened enough that they fled the moment that they were loosed, but others lingered, perhaps afraid to run.  Jo tipped her shotgun back and fired a round into the sky.  The remaining horses whinnied and dashed away, hooves pounding.

            The man’s eyes had grown even wider, if that was at all possible.  He watched, out of the corner of his vision, as Jo marched back to Daisy and mounted.  Dean jerked his head toward the horizon and said, “Sherman, you better start walking, buddy.  It’s a long way back to Dodge.”  Only after the stage driver had begun his wobbly retreat did Dean lower his pistol and turn Chevy.  Jo frowned after the man’s retreating back, but spared no attention for the dead man lying nearby.  “We better get going,” Dean said, tucking his Colt back into his waistband.  “They’re gonna be pissed when they find out about this.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Dodge City was in an uproar. 

            It had been a hot, humid day, but the sun was just beginning to set, and a cool breeze was picking up.  Castiel, a clerk for the Ford County Treasurer’s office, straightened his waistcoat and tugged his sleeves down as he exited his office for the evening.  Just outside the door, one of the sheriff’s deputies was nailing something to the noticeboard on the wall.  The man cursed as he accidentally caught his thumb with the hammer, but Castiel ignored his foul language.  “What’s that?”  He asked.

           The man cast an annoyed look over his shoulder at Castiel but then grunted and jerked his chin toward the noticeboard and stepped out of the way.  Two wanted posters, complete with sketches, stared back at Castiel.  On the first was a surly, rough looking woman toting a shotgun.  The poster read “Jo Harvelle: Wanted for murder.  Reward: $500.”  It was the second image that caught Castiel’s attention, though.  A man smirked back at him, gaze cocky, and Castiel found himself wondering whether that was really the man’s usual expression or whether the artist had taken it upon himself to portray the criminal in that fashion.  This poster read “Dean Winchester: Wanted for murder and robbery.  Reward: $1000.”  That seemed like an awful lot of money to offer as a reward, even for a murder suspect.

           Castiel cleared his throat and asked “What did they do?”

           The deputy snorted and said “What, you can’t read?”

            Castiel rolled his eyes at the man.  “Specifically.”

           The man grimaced but answered Castiel anyway.  He glared at the twin posters and said “These two robbed a stage coach just outside of town yesterday.  Killed the bank agent and left the driver to walk back to town.”

           “They didn’t kill him too?”

           “These two don’t seem all that smart.”  The deputy commented, “They’re just blood thirsty criminals, common bandits like a whole other handful we’ve seen ‘round here before.”

           “I’ve never heard of either of them.”

           The man shrugged.  “You must not ‘a been paying attention, then.  These two have been raising hell for the last month or so.”

           Castiel nodded, still staring at the black and white eyes of the bandit Dean Winchester.  “What’ll happen to them when they’re caught?”

           The deputy chuckled darkly.  “Oh, they’ll hang, one way or another.  Believe me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean hadn’t slept soundly near on four months now, not since the night his daddy and Bill Harvelle were shot to death on their own land.  It was no surprise, then, that he drifted lightly even now, as he lay on the creaky wooden floor of an abandoned shack with his head pillowed on his coat.  Jo slept next to him, curled in tightly on herself despite the lingering warmth that choked the night air.  Dean heard the creaking step just outside the door a moment before the handle turned.  Dean reached underneath his coat and wrapped his hand around the Colt, and by the time the door pushed open a crack, Dean was sitting in his make-shift bed, the barrel of the pistol pointing at the doorway.

            A large figure pushed the door wider and took a step in.  Dean clicked the hammer back and the figure froze.  “Dean?”  It hissed, and Dean let out a breath and lowered the Colt.

            “Sammy?”

            The shadow’s shoulders slumped and the voice called back “Yeah, it’s me.  Don’t shoot.”  Sam squeezed into the room and shut the door quietly behind him.  By the time he’d done so, Jo was sitting up in her own spot, hand wrapped around the grip of her shotgun while her other hand wiped sleep from her eyes.

            “Sam?”  She asked groggily.  “What are you doing here?”

            Sam drew closer so that they could make out his face through the shadows and he folded his arms over his chest in a clear sign of disapproval.  “I could ask you the same thing.”

            Jo frowned.  “What is that supposed to mean?”

            “It _means,_ Joanna Beth, that you should be in New York with Ellen right now.  Not doing… _this._ ”  He waved at her vaguely. 

            She sat up straighter.  “And just who the hell are you to tell me what I should and should not be doing?”

            Sam huffed and looked down at her, before shifting his eyes to Dean then back again.  “I’m your family, and I care about you.  And I’m telling you right now, nothing good is going to come from following this path.”

            Jo heaved herself to her feet and strode forward, so that she stood toe to toe with Sam, though she didn’t even quite reach his shoulder.  “My family?”  She shoved him in the shoulder and Sam rocked back a step, surprised at the force of her touch.  “Where the hell have you been, then?  Where were you when we needed you?”

            Dean rose to his feet then and drew near enough to pull the two of them apart if he had to, but at the moment, Sam seemed flabbergasted by the ire in Jo’s voice.  “Why are you here, Sammy?”  Dean asked.

            “I came as soon as I heard.”

            “Heard what?”  Dean asked, fighting back a yawn.

            Sam rolled his eyes and pulled a folded up piece of paper from his pocket.  After he’d unfolded it and flattened it, he shoved it in Dean’s face.  A badly done sketch of Dean looked back at him, as well as the words “Wanted for murder.”

            Dean snorted.  “The hell’d you get this?”

            “They’re everywhere, Dean.  You think Lucifer Morningstar doesn’t have connections back East?”

            Dean frowned at the image.  “It’s not even a good drawing of me,” he grumbled.

            Sam glared at him and yanked the wanted poster back.  “What is this, Dean?  You told me to stay in New York when dad and Bill were killed.  You said you’d handle it.”  He frowned and waved the paper in Dean’s face.  “You call this handling it?  Murdering people?”

            Dean bit back all the angry words that wanted to spew out of his mouth, and instead he put on a smirk and said “Yeah, well, you’re behind the times, Sammy.  We’ve got robbery under our belts now, too.”

            “Dean, you told Ellen that you’d take care of Jo!  You call this taking care of her?”

            Dean bristled.  “I am taking care of her, Sam!”

            Jo shoved Dean and continued to glare up at Sam.  “I can take care of myself!  And if you’d been around for the last two years, Sam, you’d know that!”

            “So what, you’ve been hiding out with Dean while he goes on some misled murder-spree revenge quest?!”  Sam turned angry eyes to Dean.  “Why the hell did you drag her into this?”  Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Sam ignored him, turning back to Jo.  “What would your daddy think?”

            Jo growled and lashed out, fist flying.  Sam stumbled back a step and clutched at his cheek, eyes wide, mouth hanging open with incredulity.  “My daddy is dead,” Jo snarled.  “Lucifer Morningstar and his cronies killed him.”  She bared her teeth at Sam.  “You lawyers with your smooth talk are just about damn worthless.  They weren’t gonna do a damn thing to help us, so Dean and me, we decided to help ourselves.”

            “They’ll kill you!”  Sam hissed.

            “I don’t care!”  Jo snarled back.  “I don’t care, so long as I get those murdering bastards first.”

            “Jo, this isn’t going to end well!”

            “I want their blood, Sam.”  Jo said, “And I’m not gonna stop until I get it.”  She snatched the wanted poster from Sam’s hand and tore it in half before flinging it to the ground.  “Besides, _that_ murder charge was mine.”

            That was what finally struck Sam dumb.  He stared at Jo, unable to speak for a long time, and she glared back at him, daring him to say something else.  Finally, Sam sighed and his shoulders slumped.  “Damn it, Jo.”

            Dean laid a hand on each of them, Jo to calm her down, Sam just because he’d missed him.  “You shouldn’t be here, Sammy.  It’s too late for me and Jo, but you can still avoid this storm.  Go back to New York.  You’re gonna be a lawyer, you don’t need to get mixed up in this.”

            Sam shook his head and he sighed again, resigned.  “Yeah, well, since when did anyone in this family ever do what they were supposed to?”  He glanced between Dean and Jo.  “Tell me everything.”


	4. This Ain't No Place For No Hero

 

 

 

_“I can't see where you comin' from_  
_But I know just what you runnin' from:_  
 _And what matters ain't the "who's baddest" but_  
 _The ones who stop you fallin' from your ladder, baby”_

\--“Short-Change Hero” by The Heavy

 

 

It was easy enough to get the job—a clerk was needed and he had all the right letters and a pedigree straight out of New York City.  It was the best that any Dodge City attorney at law could hope for.  He was a fine, upstanding young gentleman, with soft manners and a quick wit.  He was eager to please, and ready to work hard.  There was hardly a need for an interview, not after the recommendations found their way to the boss’s desk, and proof of a university diploma arrived via first class mail.  Still, it was a good day, a day of mutual benefit, when Metatron & Associates, Attorneys at Law, hired one Samuel Campbell to be their new clerk and research assistant.

Sam arrived to his first day of work with a smile on his face, and a determined spring to his step.  He’d promised to be the best clerk that Metatron had ever hired, and he fully intended to keep his promise.  After all, most of his resume was true—at least, the important bits were.  He _was_ a skilled clerk, trained at law in New York.  And he _did_ feel a fondness for in-depth research and dedication to justice.  It was only the letters and the diploma that were forged, really, and those were simply details. 

The important thing was that when Sam pushed his way through Metatron’s front door on Monday morning, he was ready to get down to business.  The first task he was given was to sift through a decade’s worth of tax records for the county.  He was told to look for any discrepancies in the accounting, and any over-due accounts.  Sam smiled and said “Gladly, sir.  Thank you again for this wonderful opportunity.”  And he took the dusty stack of papers to the little desk he’d been given in the corner of the front office, and he got to work.

All in all, it was easier than he’d thought.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He wasn’t granted much time in the day for himself, but he didn’t complain about that.  He was sent to the grocer at midday for the lawyers’ lunches, and the trip gave him the opportunity to breathe in some fresh air and tip his proverbial hat to the ladies and gentlemen that strolled along the boardwalk in the center of Dodge City. 

On the short trek from the office to the grocer and back, Sam passed at least three wanted posters for Dean Winchester and “Jo” Harvelle.  They were nailed to the telegraph poles, and the notice board in the center of town, and again, right outside the grocery itself.  Sam noticed with chagrin that the posters were no longer hand-drawn.  Dean and Jo had become famous enough to warrant their own mass-printings.  The reward for the both of them had gone up, as well, from the first he’d seen back in New York.  Sam grimaced.

At night, Sam spent his time in the saloon, above which he’d rented a modest room for the duration of his stay in Dodge City.  It was one of the classier establishments in the city, though that wasn’t saying much, as far as Dodge’s standards went.  What he meant by “classier” was that the prostitutes were prettier and noticeably cleaner than in some of the other places he’d enquired at, and that no one had been killed on the premises in at least a month, maybe even two.  Sam didn’t have to pretend his disdain for the situation, but he kept his displeasure to himself, instead expressing again how grateful he was for the room whenever he encountered the proprietor.

When he wasn’t secluded away in his room reading over tax documents by the light of a candle, he found himself in the rowdy main room of the saloon, having a meal and sharing a drink with whoever happened to wander through.  It was not the sort of pastime he’d indulged in while living in New York, but it wasn’t something he’d never done, either.  It was the sort of time that his father, or Dean would have enjoyed, and he’d accompanied them his fair share of times before he’d left for school on the east coast.  But more than that, it was the perfect place to hear news.  If men and women loved to gossip, they enjoyed doing so even more over a foamy glass of alcohol.  In the dim lighting of the saloon, people loosened their tongues and shared more information than Sam could even have hoped for.

One of the girls told him all about a man named Alastair, who was supposedly a cousin of Lucifer Morningstar’s, who worked for him as an agent in the city.  He was a real mean son of a bitch, according to the grapevine—he always left his evening company worse for the wear when he was done with them, and the girls had to look out for each other.  He might have found himself on the losing end of a bullet, except for that his boss looked out for him, and people were too afraid to speak up. 

It was a traveling salesman who told him that he’d heard the roads weren’t safe anymore, because of the increase in banditry in Ford County.  When Sam had asked “What do you mean?” the man had replied that if the rustlers didn’t get you, then the lawless murderers by the names of Winchester and Harvelle would. 

“They have no love of life, or respect for the law, and that is God’s honest truth,” the man had assured Sam, after he’d bought him another drink.  “Everyone knows that to travel the road between here and Ashwood without an armed escort is to take your own life in your hands.”

“Why are they killing people?”  Sam wondered, as he chewed on the stale side of a biscuit and pretended to be only half-interested.

“Why do criminals do anything?  There’s something wrong in their minds, or in their hearts.  The preacher said their souls are headed straight for Hell when they die, and I have to admit I believe him.  I don’t consider myself an overly religious man, but I tell you, from the stories I’ve heard, I hope the two of them are caught and hanged right quick.  Then maybe the honest folk in Dodge can get on with their lives.”

Sam frowned but covered his mouth with his glass before the other man, half-drunk, could notice.  “I’ll agree with you on one thing,” Sam said, after he took a sip of his warming ale, “justice needs to be served.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

One day, about two weeks after beginning his job, Metatron came out of his office, sweaty and agitated, and said “Samuel—take the rest of the day for yourself.  I realize I’ve been a bit demanding, and you’ve done so well thus far.”

Sam frowned and shuffled his papers into an orderly stack.  “But sir—it’s not even noon yet.”

Metatron shifted on his feet and attempted a smile that came across as more of a grimace.  “Yes, I’m aware.  But I insist.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning, and not before.”

Sam didn’t believe a word Metatron said, but he knew that arguing would be futile and might even get him into trouble, so he packed his things and left within a couple minutes.  The timing ended up being perfect, as luck would have it.

On his way out the door, Sam nearly collided with a stranger, their shoulders glancing off of each other as he attempted to dodge the man who blocked his way.  “I beg your pardon,” Sam was quick to apologize, unsure of who the man might be.  He was tall and thin, almost sickly so, with a large, wide mouth and sunken eyes, shadowed under the brim of a hat.

“All’s forgiven,” the man hummed with a voice that was high-pitched and a bit nasally, “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”  Then he smiled at Sam and closed the door behind him.

Inside the office, Sam could just make out Metatron’s nervous, breathy voice muttering “What is it now, Alastair?  I’ve already done what you asked.”

That soft, sibilant voice replied “Careful Metatron—remember who you work for,” before Sam thought it best that he get himself away from there quickly.

So—that was Alastair.  Good to know.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sam had been working for Metatron for nearly a month when one of his associates handed Sam a stack of papers and said “These need to be notarized.  Take them to the Treasurer’s office at the courthouse.  The notary is named Castiel Novak.  He’ll know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”  Sam obliged, folding the papers under his arm and grabbing his jacket. 

The courthouse was only a couple of blocks away from Metatron’s office, and the day wasn’t particularly cold, but there was a chill breeze that was picking up dust and kicking it around the air.

Sam wasn’t sure what to expect when he reached the courthouse.  After his dealings with Metatron’s associates in the last month, he’d accustomed himself to dealing with criminals of all types, and he’d gotten fairly accomplished at pretending not to know what they were all up to.  He’d already assisted in the laundering of thousands of dollars, and the foreclosure of two local businesses due to “back-taxes,” businesses that were subsequently bought up by men who were associated, in one way or another, with Lucifer Morningstar.  Sam committed every single sin to memory, and carried on with his work.

On this particular day, he expected to meet another of Metatron’s unsavory accomplices, but was surprised when he was met with the clean-shaven, bright-eyed face of a young man, perhaps just slightly older than himself, who reached out a delicate hand and introduced himself as “Castiel Novak, notary and clerk of the Treasury.”

Sam shook his hand, while he inspected the other man.  He wore clean, pressed clothes, and his shoes were clean, if not a bit scuffed.  The only thing that appeared to be out of place on the man was his hair, disheveled apparently despite Novak’s best efforts.  “I have papers from Metatron and Associates, that I was asked to deliver to you.”  He held out the thick folder.

“Of course,” Novak said, and motioned for Sam to follow. 

“Do you do a lot of work for Mr. Metatron?”  Sam asked nonchalantly as he followed the shorter man to his cramped office.

“An average amount, I’d say,” Novak replied, as he seated himself behind the desk, and motioned for Sam to take the only other chair in the room.  “I am one of the only notaries in the city, so I do a lot of work with all of the law offices in Dodge.”  He ran a hand through his hair as he opened the folder and began pouring over the documents within.  “Although,” he commented absently, “I will admit that they’ve had need of me more often as of late.”

“Oh?”  Sam prodded, as his eyes took in the details of the organized little office.

“Mmmhmmm,” Novak responded, as he read over a document and began to affix his signature at the bottom.

“Any idea why?”

“Your employer seems to have become rather successful as of late.”

“What do you mean?”

“More clients.  A lot of title transfer requests,” Novak murmured, as he waved at the document he was signing as proof.  “But then, that is Mr. Metatron’s specialty, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”  Sam asked innocently.  “I’ve only just begun working for him.”

“Oh, yes.  Property and tax law.”

“He does seem to be very clever,” Sam mused.  “Has he ever taken a criminal case?”

Novak paused in what he was doing and raised baffled blue eyes to Sam’s own.  “Criminal case?”

“Yeah.  Like, murder, or robbery.”

“No, not to my knowledge.  I don’t know that he’d be very good at it, in any case.”  Novak licked his lips, then rushed to say, “I mean no offense to your employer, it’s only that tax law and criminal law is pretty far removed, and I’ve never known him to take an interest in the latter.”

“Oh, alright.”  Sam smiled.  “I was just curious.”

Novak smiled back tightly and then turned his attention back to the documents.

 

 

 

 

 

Sam sat in the notary’s office for nearly two hours before he was roused from his boredom by a hissed curse, and he began paying attention to Novak once more.  “What is it?”  Sam asked.

Novak shuffled through the stack of papers and, frowning, said “Nothing.  I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“If there’s some problem, maybe I could help…?”

“No, that’s quite alright.”  Novak said.  “It’s just that… there seem to be some discrepancies here.  Sale dates, mostly.”

“What sort of discrepancies?”  Sam asked, narrowing his eyes.

Novak met his gaze, and with wide, startled blue eyes, said “I’m sure it’s nothing.  My mistake.”

“You sure?”  Sam prompted.

“I’m sure.”  Novak promised.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

That evening, as Sam returned to the otherwise empty office, he rifled through the papers in the folder and realized that a few of them were missing.  He didn’t bother hiding his own smile as he sat the folder on his desk.  So, Novak had gotten curious.  And apparently spooked by something he’d seen.  Sam would pretend that he hadn’t noticed, but he would keep an eye on the notary for the next few days.  Maybe there was _one_ decent soul in this God-forsaken city, after all.  Someone who was willing to question the criminal activity that seemed to permeate the very air of the place.  But then again, good men like that, hero-types, were the first to meet a bloody end, weren’t they?  He hoped that Novak was smart enough to keep his head down if he learned anything of interest, instead of confronting Metatron, or even worse, one of the other men listed on those deeds.

Sam pushed thoughts of Castiel Novak from his mind as he quickly made sure he was alone in the office before picking the lock on Metatron’s door and pushing his way in, as he’d done many times before.  He was two-thirds of the way through Metatron’s private files, and already he had a long list of names committed to memory.  Sam didn’t know whether he should be impressed or disappointed in Metatron and Lucifer Morningstar.  They were very good at record-keeping and making their transactions look official, but the other side of that coin meant that they left a paper trail about a mile wide that connected them and pointed to every crime they’d ever committed.  And Sam wasn’t even done yet.  He still had two weeks left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever since I updated this story, but I was hit by a bolt of inspiration, and so I'm hoping to get back to work! I hope you enjoy, and remember, comments are love and the fuel that keeps me writing :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! Also, feel free to stalk me on my tumblr: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/


End file.
